Alison Cook reviews Ocean’s

Each of the three times I visited Ocean’s, I found myself thinking that it was a very strange restaurant.

At first, this young establishment dedicated to ceviches seemed perfectly normal. The welcome was warm. The staff seemed very green but very willing. The wine list was short but fun, with a $38 Lucien Albrecht Cremant d’Alsace ­­— pale pink and sparkling — that could transform any meal into an occasion. The margaritas, shaken and served straight up, vibrated with fresh citrus and the suggestion of a tequila edge that makes this iconic Houston cocktail come alive for me.
And the room was as serene and handsome as anything in town, the wraparound French windows of the old Bistro Vino house on a shady West Alabama lot trimly restored, the wooden floors buffed dark and gleamy against white linens. Not only had young Mexico City brothers Jorge and Isaac Alvarez spared the vintage structure from the wrecking ball, they had transformed it into a svelte retreat that stayed true to the original.

Outside, amid huge old trees and greenery, one of the nicest dining patios in town beckoned.

Ocean’s concept seemed promising, too. A slate of ceviches on an upscaled Mexican coastal menu made sense in a city entranced with raw fish in many forms, from sashimi and sushi to the latest Gulf fish crudos dreamed up by our young Turk chefs. Ocean’s even won bragging rights in its first months by placing second in the Houston Chowhounds’ Ceviche Throwdown, besting a raft of Houston’s most accomplished chefs.

So why was I sitting at one of Ocean’s rather too dimly lit tables asking myself, “Is this all there is?” The short menu turned out to be even more restricted than it looked at first glance, its five versions of ceviche (one of them “vegetarian”) augmented by nine mix-and-match antojitos that basically recycled the same handful of ingredients. There were a couple of salads, a couple of entrees, a couple of desserts.
Stranger still, the preparation of some of the items seemed minimal in the extreme — more assembled than cooked, really. The Prime Filet Mignon Tostada, for instance, turned out to be a naked crisp tortilla round paved with thin slices of rosy tenderloin. Over and out. It sat on its stark white plate with a baffling pile of thin, previously frozen French fries and a bit of cilantro and minced onion. It wasn’t bad, but for 15 bucks it seemed awfully basic. Ditto the $14 Prime Filet Mignon Taco, which proved to be the same exact plate with a soft corn tortilla underneath the thin beef slices.

I found myself horrified by the $16 Lobster Sope, which featured woody hunks of grilled lobster tail on an unobjectionable masa boat topped with black beans and crema. (Had the lobster been halfway decent, the dish would have been fine.) In a peculiar plating touch, the crimson lobster tail was set beside the sope, so that when I upended it to see if there were lobster inside, I stared into the empty shell. Huh?

All might have been forgiven had the signature ceviches wowed. They did not. There were never more than two kinds of fish available — salmon or yellowtail, both priced at $14. (And on one occasion, our waiter completely forgot to ask us which fish we preferred, showing up with two plates of salmon.)

At two dinners, the sashimi-style slices of fish arrayed on its chic rectangular platters had been overwhelmed either by a great tumble of vegetable garnishes or by a big wash of sauce. Only at lunch, when a more temperate soul seemed to be composing the ceviche platters, did I catch a glimpse of what Ocean’s could be at its best.

I had feared that the Ceviche Rasurado might be a cacaphony of warring flavors, what with its serrano, chipotle, onion, avocado, cilantro and extra virgin olive oil. Instead, the fresh-tasting salmon slices took wing beneath those sparingly applied ingredients. There was just enough heat and verve for the Houston palate, and the half-moons of crisply fried corn tortilla bookending the platter made perfect scoops.

That same noon, the Oriental Ceviche of salmon was a gentle success in which ginger and sesame and cucumber played nicely with rice vinegar, a splash of orange juice and a tiny bit of soy. The half-dozen slices of fish on the plate were gone in no time. It was just the kind of dish, I thought ruefully, that would make lunch for the pretty young things who appear in the society pages. But not for me. I was left calculating that my $14 had purchased exactly 12 bites of food.

My other adventures in ceviche here were not so happy. One night, the Ocean’s Ceviche that had won second place in the Ceviche Throwdown emerged in its yellowtail version with the fish utterly trumped by sharp citrus. Another evening, the same ceviche was nearly buried in slivered red pepper and onions and avocado, so that its sparks of olive, chile and orange juice had a hard time making themselves felt. The fish? Perhaps its was just as well it was trounced, as the yellowtail was past its prime.

The subpar condition of the fish was more obvious in the Sinaloa Ceviche (now there’s a name for you) that night. Even a large pool of overly strong, Worcestershire-like sauce couldn’t mask the fact that the yellowtail was not spanking fresh. If you’re basing your reputation on two kinds of fish, they had better be perfect. Perhaps the lack of customers during the couple of weeks I visited had affected the supply rhythms for the worse.

On its website, Ocean’s lists Rafael Corzo as consulting chef. Co-owner Isaac Alvarez was listed as executive chef for the Ceviche Throwdown entry. Yet I was left with the distinct impression that there was no real chef in this kitchen, just some harried soul trying to put together the small slate of dishes any which way, alternating ingredients and proportions to suit what was in the mise en place at a given moment. Even two versions of the house special ceviche came out very differently on two different evenings. The printed menu seems to be a loose template.

And I will continue to wonder whether the dismal Vegetarian Tostada resembled chef Corzo’s plan for the dish. The round, crisp tortilla circle was piled with a tangle of slivered red and yellow peppers, onions and crimini mushrooms, all sauteed in a powerfully twangy soy marinade that made me screw up my face in dismay. On the side, with a couple dabs of salsa (one a throat-searing habanero), sat those pale frozen french fries.

I glanced around at the light streaming through the French windows and thought that these beautiful surroundings — and Houston diners — deserve far better food. But it will take real commitment and a professionally run kitchen from Ocean’s owners to achieve that.